The battlefield was a storm of chaos and blood, and at its heart was Ivar, cutting through enemies like a god of war. His presence was a force unto itself, commanding attention and leaving devastation in his wake. He moved with a deadly elegance, each swing of his blade calculated, each strike precise. Heads rolled and bodies crumpled as he advanced, his blackened steel sword glinting in the dying light. His figure, tall and imposing, was draped in dark leather armor etched with sigils, the remnants of countless battles. His shoulder-length, raven-black hair whipped around his face, and his piercing blue eyes burned with an intensity that froze men where they stood.
Ivar's face, carved with sharp angles and a jawline that could cut glass, was cold, emotionless, as if the carnage around him didn't touch his soul. Blood splattered across his cheek and jaw, but he didn't flinch, didn't pause. His movements were impossibly fast, too fluid for any mortal man, his evolving body elevating him to a rank far beyond human limitations.
An enemy soldier lunged at him with a spear, and Ivar twisted effortlessly, dodging the attack with a predator's grace. His counterstrike was brutal and efficient—his blade sliced cleanly through the man's neck, sending his head tumbling to the ground. Without missing a beat, Ivar stepped forward, thrusting his sword into another opponent's chest. His strength was monstrous; the sheer force of his strike sent the lifeless body flying backward.
---
Finn stood at the edge of the carnage, his blade still in his hand, forgotten for the moment as he watched his elder brother. He was a handsome man, his auburn hair tied back loosely, strands escaping to frame his thoughtful face. His hazel eyes, normally filled with doubt and hesitation, now widened with a mixture of awe and unease. Ivar was merciless, unstoppable, like a storm no one could weather. Finn's lips parted as he exhaled, his breath visible in the cold air.
Beside him, Elijah, younger by four years, smirked. His dark brown hair fell neatly around his face, and his sharp, aristocratic features were softened by the genuine admiration in his gaze. He rested a hand on the hilt of his sword as if the battle around them were secondary to the spectacle of their brother. "Ivar is magnificent," he remarked, his tone tinged with something like envy. "No one can match him. Not you, not me, not even Niklaus."
Finn frowned but didn't look away from Ivar. His jaw tightened, his grip on his sword hilt firm. "Magnificent, yes," he murmured, his voice low. "But there's more to him than the blade. Something... heavier."
Elijah chuckled softly, his eyes still on Ivar as the older brother carved through another wave of attackers. "Perhaps. But it's still a shame, isn't it? That he doesn't even glance at Tatia. She loves him, you know. Despite Niklaus and I vying for her affections, she only has eyes for Ivar. And why wouldn't she? He's the only one who could protect her. The only one who could truly be the man she deserves." Elijah's smirk faded into a wistful expression. "But he doesn't even look at her. He treats her like she doesn't exist."
Finn turned to Elijah then, his face shadowed by something deeper than the battlefield's gloom. "He has his reasons," Finn said, his voice sharp but steady.
Elijah raised an eyebrow, a teasing glint returning to his eyes. "Ah, yes. The same reasons as yours?"
The subtle twitch in Finn's jaw was answer enough.
---
Not far away, Mikael watched his two younger sons with a growing frown. He stood tall amidst the battlefield, his presence commanding even among the chaos. His graying hair and hard-lined face gave him the appearance of an old warrior, but his movements were swift and precise as he drove his sword through an opponent's heart, yanking it free with a practiced motion. Blood sprayed across his chest plate, but he didn't flinch.
"Finn! Elijah!" he barked, his voice cutting through the clamor like a whip. His blue eyes, colder than the frost underfoot, narrowed as he strode toward them. "Admiring your brother won't win this battle. Fight or fall."
Finn stiffened, his face flushing with embarrassment, and Elijah's smirk faltered, replaced by a sheepish grin. "Of course, Father," Elijah said, inclining his head with mock formality before turning back to the fight.
Mikael's gaze lingered on Finn, the disapproval in his expression unmistakable. Finn lowered his eyes, nodding silently before stepping into the fray, his strikes hesitant compared to Ivar's brutal precision.
---
Ivar didn't acknowledge any of them. His focus was absolute, his mind a singular force driving his body forward. Another group of enemies approached, their faces pale with fear, and Ivar's lips twitched—just slightly—as if he almost pitied them. Then he moved, a blur of death and destruction, his blade cleaving through their ranks. One man screamed as Ivar severed his arm, another fell silent as his chest was split open. The battlefield was painted red wherever Ivar passed.
The weight of Mikael's gaze fell on him then, lingering longer than it had on Finn and Elijah. Mikael's frown deepened, but this time there was no reprimand in his eyes. Only grim satisfaction—and perhaps a flicker of pride.
Months Later
The journey home was quiet, the sounds of war fading into the background as the family rode through the frostbitten woods. The tension of the battlefield lingered in the air, but it was softened by the prospect of warmth and familiar faces. As they approached their sprawling compound, the distant chatter of children reached their ears—a reminder that life went on, even amidst the bloodshed.
Niklaus was the first to spot them, his lean figure perched on the porch rail. His golden-brown curls caught the pale sunlight, framing a boyish face that was alight with anticipation. He sprang to his feet, hazel eyes wide with excitement, and darted down the steps. "Finally! You're back!" he exclaimed, his voice tinged with a mixture of relief and irritation. "I can't believe you left me behind again!"
Kol trailed after him, his gait unhurried and his dark brown eyes gleaming with mischief. He was younger than Niklaus but carried himself with a confidence that belied his years. He tilted his head, smirking. "War stories already, Klaus? Or are you going to whine about missing out again?"
Niklaus shot him a glare but didn't dignify the jab with a response. Instead, his attention shifted to their father, Mikael, whose imposing presence instantly silenced the boy's complaints. Mikael dismounted with a practiced ease, his stern blue eyes sweeping over Niklaus. His lips pressed into a thin line, and there was no warmth in his expression.
"You missed nothing," Mikael said coldly. "Your weakness would have been a hindrance. Be grateful you stayed."
The words hit Niklaus like a slap, and his proud stance faltered. His face darkened, his jaw tightening as he clenched his fists at his sides. "I'm not weak," he muttered, though his voice lacked conviction. His hand instinctively went to the small silver necklace around his neck, fingers curling around the pendant.
Mikael's scoff was loud and dismissive, his gaze already moving past Niklaus. But Ivar, who had been silent throughout the exchange, paused as he stepped off his horse. His sharp blue eyes flicked to the necklace, narrowing slightly as a shadow of understanding crossed his face. He shook his head subtly, the movement so slight it was almost imperceptible. Then, with a rare, faint smirk, he clapped Niklaus on the shoulder, the gesture firm but not unkind.
"One day, Klaus," Ivar said, his voice low and steady, "you'll strike fear in the hearts of men."
Niklaus looked up at his brother, startled. The words hung in the air, unexpected and heavy with meaning. Ivar didn't wait for a response, though. He moved past Niklaus, his black armor catching the light, and jabbed Kol lightly in the shoulder as he passed.
Kol winced dramatically, his hand flying to his arm. "Ow! That hurt, you brute!" he complained, but his pout quickly turned into a grin. "You didn't miss me at all, did you?"
Ivar's lips twitched, the barest hint of amusement crossing his otherwise stoic face. "Not even a little," he said, his tone deadpan, though the glint in his eyes betrayed him.
As they neared the house, little Henrik came bounding down the steps, his laughter bubbling up like a stream. The youngest of the family, his small frame and cherubic face were untouched by the hardships of their world. "Ivar! Ivar!" he called, his arms outstretched.
Ivar's cold exterior softened immediately. He crouched and scooped Henrik up with ease, holding him high above his head. "Have you been keeping Rebekah in line for me, little warrior?" he asked, his deep voice lightening just enough to make the boy giggle.
"I have!" Henrik declared proudly, his small hands gripping Ivar's broad shoulders.
Rebekah, her blonde hair glinting like spun gold, approached with a bright smile. Her delicate features lit up when she saw Ivar, and she reached for his hand without hesitation. "Don't believe him," she teased, her blue eyes sparkling. "He's been just as much trouble as usual."
Ivar took her hand in his free one, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his calloused palm. Together, they walked toward the house, Henrik perched on his arm and Rebekah chattering happily by his side.
Esther watched from the doorway, her figure silhouetted against the glow of the hearth behind her. Her expression was unreadable, a mix of longing and resignation. She said nothing as Ivar passed her without so much as a glance. He didn't pause, didn't acknowledge her presence. The silence between them was louder than any words could have been.
As Ivar disappeared into the house with Henrik and Rebekah, Esther's shoulders slumped slightly. She turned her gaze to Mikael, who had been watching the exchange with a hardened expression. The weight of her unspoken guilt hung heavy in the air, but she didn't speak. She didn't need to. Mikael's disapproving scowl said everything she already knew.